


Game Changer

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Businesswoman Idril, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 06:58:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6744091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carefully, her consonants clipped, Idril said: “Let me be sure I understand you. There is some conspiracy for a corporate takeover, that—despite the many years in which Gondolin Industries has remained independently owned, through many such previous attempts—you are certain is going to succeed this time. Yet, somehow, you have no notion of when or how it will happen, or even who we should be on watch against.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game Changer

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the [tolkiensecretartexchange](http://tolkiensecretartexchange.tumblr.com) in December, for avantegarda. I'm only just now remembering to post it here!

Idril was the sort of person who looked over her glasses at people when they were being difficult. They were thin, gold wireframes that she always wore when working; they lent her face a perpetual expression of being out of patience, which was a thing she liked to remind people of when she was on the job.

Right now, she was looking over them at a man who did not seem to understand what the look meant. He was looking back, earnestly, instead of dropping his eyes in embarrassment. It was not that he was challenging her; he was only waiting for her reply, without the least bit of self-consciousness or shame.

Carefully, her consonants clipped, Idril said: “Let me be sure I understand you. There is some conspiracy for a corporate takeover, that—despite the many years in which Gondolin Industries has remained independently owned, through many such previous attempts—you are certain is going to succeed this time. Yet, somehow, you have no notion of when or how it will happen, or even who we should be on watch against.”

She would give him this much—he looked vastly better than when he had first stumbled into their lobby, asking to see her father. Idril hadn’t been there, but she had reviewed the footage. If it weren’t for Voronwë at his side, insisting that he was worth listening to, they would have thrown the man out at once (or had the police do so). Even then, it had taken some significant negotiation by Voronwë on his behalf.

Now his hair and beard were neatly trimmed, and he wore a sharply-fitting suit Voronwë must have picked out for him. He sat in her office as if it were not a foreign place to him, and did not seem nervous or uncertain under her scrutiny. There was the same unwavering conviction in him, though, and Idril found it hard to say whether that was appealing or disquieting.

“Yes,” Tuor said, his face open and intent, as if he were immune to how ridiculous the whole thing sounded. “I’m sorry I can’t give you any more. Ulmo was certain there was no way to prevent it, or I’m sure he would have tried. I’ve heard how he values your father—”

“Yes, yes,” Idril said impatiently, because that wasn’t any sort of insider information; it was well-established to the public that Ulmo had given her father the original loan and advised him on what markets to enter all those years ago.

“—but he hoped, with enough warning, that Turgon could begin planning ways to protect your workforce. Looking at other markets. Perhaps even splitting the company. You know what a disaster it would be for Tumladen if something happened to Gondolin.” She did know. Gondolin employed the vast majority of Tumladen’s residents. It was one of the things that kept her up at night—imagining what the valley would be like if all its inhabitants were suddenly out of work. And if she suspected correctly, the forces currently ranged against them would consider outsourcing labor their top priority if they managed to acquire the company. Assuming Tuor’s information had a grain of truth to it (though she was, as yet, not quite willing to believe more than that), her nightmare was closer to reality than it had ever been.

Tuor seemed at last to recognize her skepticism. “I know I’m not the best messenger, but Ulmo couldn’t get away. He didn’t know who might be watching him.” He didn’t say that Ulmo could already be in a fair amount of trouble with his boss for revealing this much, but they both knew it. “Please, Miss Celebrindal, let me make my case to your father. Gondolin Industries needs to prepare, or it will take him—and you—and all of your employees down with it.”

There was something compelling in his plea. Idril sternly examined her desire to grant it; was it just because he was handsome? or because the warning went along with her own long-dismissed feeling that they needed to diversify their revenue streams? She loved her father, and respected him deeply, but it was an area where they did not see eye-to-eye. If that was her reasoning, well, she should at least be honest with herself before proceeding.

Idril took her glasses off, folding them and placing them on her pristine desktop, then pinched the bridge of her nose. She _did_ believe him, though there was no good reason to; and he _was_ handsome, and she _did_ want an excuse to press Turgon again on considering what it might take to move into other markets. All three were true. The decision had already been made.

“You can make your case. But not like this. Voronwë and I will coach you on what to say. You can set a time with my assistant.” She put the glasses on again, and this time looked at him straight-on, through the lenses. “Keep your expectations low. Mr. Wise has a very specific vision of how the company should operate, and it doesn’t include the kind of changes you’re proposing. He thinks we can continue to fly under the radar, that we are too small and too much a family business for anyone to come after. That our competition is all of the friendly-neighborhood sort.”

Tuor started in surprise. “But Gondolin is one of the largest—”

Idril smiled wryly. “I know. Perhaps his old friend Ulmo will be more persuasive than his daughter.”

***

She had meant for it to be one brief session, the three of them spending an hour or so drafting Tuor a speech with slightly more impact than “Ulmo says someone’s gunning for your CEO seat.”

The first meeting was the shortest hour of her life.

Idril had always liked Voronwë, though she hadn’t known him well. He seemed clever, measured, patient but pleasant from her limited view; she was happy to discover it was a very accurate assessment. He had a good feel for the culture of the company, and a knack for saying things in a way that made them sound considered and sensible. She half-wondered why he hadn’t done this with Tuor before they came crashing in that first day.

Tuor’s determination turned out to be more of an asset than expected. Idril could not guess what had passed between him and Ulmo, but whatever they had said to one another, Tuor had a mission and he meant to complete it. While he didn’t have her knowledge of the issues at stake—or even Voronwë’s—his suggestions were surprisingly on point. He could keep up with their discussions quite well, but he wasn’t as tied to old ideas.

The scope grew. What had started as a simple message had become a speech, and then a presentation. They scheduled another meeting.

After the third meeting, Idril began to feel real hope. The three of them worked well together, and their plan was coming along. After all, what would be the use of a persuasive presentation without some kind of concrete action steps behind it? Even if her father agreed (and some unlikely part of her was beginning to think he might), he was not exactly prepared to lead the charge on this. If they had a working plan to offer once they’d sold him on the general premise, they could get started right away.

After the fourth meeting she realized, with a start, that she had never had the luxury of working this closely with people who weren’t her father’s old friends. Tuor and Voronwë looked to her as more than Turgon Wise’s daughter, or even the right hand of his company; she was an equal partner in this project, someone they looked to on her own merit. Her formerly-tidy desk was now cluttered with research, charts, and extra plasticware from all the takeout they ordered when their plotting ran through mealtimes.

She stopped having nightmares about Tumladen as a ghost town.

She would have been grateful, except that now her dreams were about Voronwë’s boyfriend, and that was perhaps even less productive than the nightmares.

She’d been paying them both as consultants (against Tuor’s protests—Voronwë, at least, knew the worth of his work on this, perhaps because he understood how long Idril had been waiting for a chance to make this argument in a way Turgon would hear it), but she would hire them both in an instant if her father elected not to. Voronwë could have returned to his old job, probably, but she thought it a waste of his talents. And selfishly, she wanted to keep Tuor for her own division, though she knew her father could offer something higher-up than she could.

Either way, it led to the same thing: a romantic entanglement was a terrible idea. Doubly so when he was taken, and trebly so when he was taken by the third member of their excellent trio. They were discreet, but she wasn’t blind. There was an intimacy between them, an ease, and besides the way Voronwë looked at Tuor was unmistakable. (Tuor was a little harder to read, if only because his friendly enthusiasm meant he looked at _everyone_ that way, even when they could see him. It didn’t mean anything when he smiled at her like she’d discovered the cure for cancer.)

She resolved to herself to leave it alone, and mostly succeeded. It was difficult sometimes, when Voronwë was laughing at her jokes and Tuor was bantering back, leaning close as he teased her; or when the three of them bent their heads close to look at some graph or table, and no one was that careful about how shoulders and hips and knees touched.

They finally finished—or rather, mutually agreed to stop making last-minute adjustments—the night before Tuor’s official meeting with Turgon. Idril marked the occasion with some relief. Perhaps she could keep Voronwë, and her father would take on Tuor; she could hold onto some vestige of the easy, productive environment they had managed together, without the inherent distraction.

Unfortunately, Tuor was not going by her playbook.

“Idril,” he said lightly, after they’d all finished congratulating one another on a job well done, “No, pressure, but—would you like to go get a drink with me?”

She was giddy with imagined success, and threw him a teasing smile. “I suppose that depends. What does your boyfriend think?”

Tuor laughed, but Voronwë froze, shaking his head sharply at Idril before Tuor turned around to look at him. “What do you think, darling, can I take this stunning blonde out for drinks, or will it make you too jealous?”

Voronwë smirked, without a trace of his previous dismay. “Don’t keep him out too late, he has a very important meeting in the morning.”

Idril looked between them, realizing things were not _quite_ as she had imagined. She was sure she hadn’t misread Voronwë’s intent, but apparently she had misread Tuor’s knowledge of it, which made things even more tricky.

Once Tuor looked away from him, Voronwë made a shooing “go on” motion at her. It was all the permission she should have needed; but somehow she found herself unwilling to break up the band, so to speak. Suddenly she didn’t want this to be the end of their partnership.

“Another time,” she said, and then— “that isn’t a no. Tonight, why don’t you both come my way? One last fast-food dinner before the big day? Hell, I’ll even spring for pizza. My bar is mostly stocked, if we want to do some moderate celebrating.”

Tuor beamed, and something in Voronwë unwound.

Idril, poised on the edge of so many thrilling possible futures, forgot her disapproving glasses on her desk.


End file.
